The First Con
by mygoodeye
Summary: Sawyer's first con, and my first fancfic


**The First Con**

Note: this is my first fanfic ever, so please tell me if you liked it or not. It's the story of Sawyer's first con, set after the death of his parents. If all the facts and figures aren't 100 correct sorry, my memory isn't perfect! and the character Jack is not THE Jack, just to clear any confusion. There's no junior Skate either:)

**Chapter One.**

Kicking the heels of his sneakers against the base of the leather armchair that was trying to swallow him alive, James Ford stares blankly at the man sat opposite him. Dr. Carl Young was James' fourth psychotherapist and he would treat this one the same as all the rest; with reluctant cooperation. Answer his questions, speak politely, keep a brave face.

The doctor was reading through James' more than comprehensive folder of case notes, his mouth a pucker of concentration. His concentration hampered of course by the unrelenting bumping of shoe against wood. Dr. Young coughed aloud, shooting a mild glare at the blonde haired boy, meeting his cool blue eyes. James looked away, feet still kicking, at the pictures blue-tacked to the doctor's room. Bugs Bunny, Mickey Mouse, the Jetsons; all cheerful and bright within their black outlines. He didn't watch cartoons much anymore, but he was sure that the other kids who came in here must find them comforting in a way he couldn't.

Ten years old. No obvious disciplinary problems, but his teachers feared he was withdrawn, and he had made little attempt to make friends since starting at the school. Reading finished, Dr. Young sets the notes down on his desk, leans forward, rests his elbows on them. James knows this is his cue and stops kicking. He smiles a little. The doctor smiles back and asks in a friendly, conversational manner "How's things at school James?"

……

Recess. Walking too close to the wall, keeping his shape small, James rounds the school building heading swiftly to the spot where he knows the other kids won't bother him. He stops abruptly before a wall, darts eyes both ways and, assured he hasn't been seen, is up and over the crumbling brickwork in a second. His secret place is well fortified. One side the wall, the other the back of the janitor's shed. He scrambles around in the dirt and dim light to find his stash; an old tin lunchbox, the design rusted off. He cracks the clasp and pulls out his current reading material and a pack of Marlboro Reds. Flicking his hair to one side he sticks a tip in his mouth and fumbles in the lunchbox for a pack of matches.

Inhaling as deeply as his under-formed lungs will allow, James finds his place in the book. He was particularly enjoying this one and he scanned the title once more, reading aloud inside his head; _The Lord Of The Flies_. He imagined himself as Ralph, holding the great conch shell. An island a million miles from here he could escape to between math and history. Not that he hated lessons, just the being there. Teachers were fine but the kids, how could they possibly know. He wasn't like them anymore. Better leave them to their games of kickball, the petty politics of their friendships, the lords of their playground.

……

After telling Dr. Young about how much he likes learning about the Civil War this year, and how he can't wait for next weeks field trip, James is asked to write about a dream he's had recently. Any dream he can remember, he can even draw pictures. He's handed a No.2 pencil and some chewed crayons. Dr. Young excuses himself from the room to take care of some other business while James writes. For a long time he stares at the white, and thinks carefully about what Dr. Young would like him to be dreaming about. Then he takes a blue crayon, a neutral color, and begins.

……

Sitting at the back of the class, James takes his history book out of his desk, flipping through it to find a blank page. His handwriting is small but self consciously legible; the teacher at his last school had been very insistent that left handed people had terrible handwriting. He stares at the pen in his left hand. His mom and dad had written with their right hands, and so did everyone else in his family he could think of-

The voice of his teacher broke his thoughts. Glancing up towards the front of the room he notices an unfamiliar boy standing beside her, nervously fiddling with the strap of his rucksack. James shifts his glance uncomfortably to the empty desk next to his, a barrier now threatened.

"This is Jack" his teacher beams, "he's just moved here from Ohio, and I hope you all make him feel welcome". The some kids smile politely, some ignore her completely. James lowers his head and pretends to read something in his book. He feels the presence of the empty desk prickle at his right side.

"James?" he snaps his head up at the mention of his name. "Since you were new here not so long ago, perhaps you'll show Jack around?"

"Yes, m'am" he answers, brushing hair from his eyes. _Keep a brave face_. The teacher turns to Jack "there's a seat right there next to him, I think you'll get along just fine".

James can see the boy is smaller than himself, not less well built but still weaker somehow. Must be scared, he thinks. He walks quickly to the empty desk, trying not to draw any more attention than he can help. He gives a shaky "hi" to James and sits, unzipping his shop-fresh rucksack.

……

My dream by James Ford

Last night I dreamed I was at the beach and there wasn't anybody else around I could see. The sea was real blue and it hurt my eyes because I didn't have my shades on. I swam out real far so I couldn't see the bottom. Then a shark came but that's ok because I like sharks a lot. It was a friendly shark and it let me hold on and it took me for a ride to the bottom of the sea. I saw a lot more fish. Then the shark took me back to the beach and then I woke up.

THE END.

……

Recess again. Jack walks by his side, in his shadow, his short brown hair a contrast to his own. Not the only difference, he thinks. So far the kid hasn't bothered him that much, except that now he wants his cigarette and to escape in the pages of his book. But there's no way he's letting this kid know his secret place. Jack clutches a brown paper bag, sandwiches from mommy inside, and a concerned note too probably, he thinks.

"Um, so, want to eat your sandwiches?"

"Uh…yeah, ok, but aren't you having any lunch too?"

Both unsure of each other, both would rather be alone. "I wait till I go home. Granma cooks a big dinner for when I get home", James lies, flicking his hair back, "but we can go sit while you eat yours".

James leads him to a wooden bench at the back of the playground, his mind working overtime for way he can shake him for just ten minutes, to at least grab his book. Looking at Jack though, he knows the boy wouldn't last ten minutes alone in the playground, easy prey. Despite having to forego his precious escape time, he cannot feel any kind of resentment towards Jack as the boy carefully un-wraps his sandwiches. There's no-one to make sandwiches for James anymore.

……

Dr. Young returns from his business and sees the boy has finished writing the dream exercise. He asks him how he feels about today's session. Feeling relieved that there's been no mention of his parents; James replies that he thinks he's going to like coming to see Dr. Young, and that he likes him a whole lot better than his last doctor. Pleased with this compliment, the doctor tells him his grandmother is waiting outside and that he'll see him same time next week. James shouts a thankyougoodbye through the closing door as he leaves the room.

……

Note from the desk of Dr. Carl Young 

James Ford presents what seems a fairly unproblematic case, despite the trauma he has received. No outward sign of violent or depressive behavior, he appears to be a bright and healthy child. No medication will be required at this moment. 'My dream' exercise raises some concern, i.e. lack of other people; - possibility of fear of isolation/ current solitary behavior. Will raise issue of parents next session.

_Dr. C. Young._


End file.
